deposited, gently, on the seat.
As she fussed about, settling her skirts, Helen reflected that new experiences were always unsettling. Just what it was she felt every time he touched her she could not have said—but she had no doubt it was scandalous. And delicious. And very likely addictive, as well. Doubtless, it was one of those tricks rakes had at their fingertips, to make susceptible women their slaves. Not that her late and wholly unlamented husband had had the facility. Then again, she amended, giving the devil his due, Arthur had never had much time for her, the gawky sixteen-year old he had wed for her fortune and supplanted within weeks with a more experienced courtesan. However, none of the countless admirers she had had since her return to social acceptability had ever affected her as Martin Willesden did.
The curricle jerked into motion. Her eyes fell to his hands, long, strong fingers managing the reins. His ability probably owed more to his undeniable experience—the experience that glowed in the smouldering depths of those grey eyes. Whatever it was, wherever its origin, he was dangerous—a fact she should strive to remember.
The sun found her face; Helen tilted her head up and breathed in the fresh scent of rain-washed greenery. Her mental homily was undoubtedly apt, but, try as she might, she could not take the threat seriously. This was an adventure, her first in years. She was reluctant to allow strictures, however appropriate, to mar the joy. The situation was, after all, beyond outrageous; decorum and social niceties had necessarily been set aside. Why shouldn’t she enjoy the freedom of the moment?
‘We should reach Ilchester for a late breakfast.’
Helen wished he had not mentioned food. Determined to keep her mind from dwelling on her empty stomach, she cast about for some suitably innocuous topic. ‘You said you’d been visiting your home. Is it near here?’
‘The other side of Taunton.’
‘You’ve been away for some time, haven’t you? Was it much changed?’
Martin grimaced. ‘Thirteen years of mismanagement have unfortunately taken their toll.’ The silence following this pronouncement suggested that his anger at the fact had shown in his tone. He sought to soften the effect. ‘My mother lives there, but she’s been an invalid for some years. My sister-in-law acts as her companion but unfortunately she’s a nonentity—hardly the sort to raise a dust when the runners disappeared.’
‘Disappeared?’ Shocked incredulity showed in fair Juno’s eyes, echoed in her tone.
Reluctantly, Martin grinned. ‘I’m afraid the place, beyond my mother’s rooms, is barely habitable. That’s why I was so set on heading back to London without delay.’ Reflecting that had this not been the case he would not have had the honour of rescuing fair Juno, Martin began to look on the Hermitage’s shortcomings with a slightly less jaundiced eye. Considering the matter dispassionately, something he had yet to do, he shrugged. ‘It’s not seriously damaged—the fabric’s sound enough. I’ve a team of decorators at work on my town house. When they’ve finished there, I’ll send them to the Hermitage.’
Intrigued by the distant look in his eyes, Helen gently prompted, ‘Tell me what it’s like.’
Martin grinned. His eyes on his horses, and on the ruts in the road, he obliged with a thumbnail sketch of the Hermitage, not as he had found it, but as he remembered it. ‘In my father’s day, it was a gracious place,’ he concluded. ‘Whenever I think of it, I remember it as being full of guests. Hopefully, now I’ve returned, I’ll be able to restore it to its previous state.’
Helen listened intently, struck by the fervour rippling in the undercurrents of his deep voice. ‘It’s your favourite estate?’ she asked, trying to find the reason.
Martin considered the question, trying to find words to convey his feelings. ‘I suppose it’s the place I call home. The place I most associate with my father. And happier memories.’
The tone of his last sentence prevented further enquiry. Helen mulled over what little she knew of the new Earl of Merton and realised it was little indeed. He had clearly been out of the country, but why and where she had no idea. She had heard talk of a scandal, unspecified, in his past, but, given the anticipation of the hostesses of the ton, it was clearly of insufficient import to exclude him from their ballrooms and dinners.
While he conversed, one part of Martin’s mind puzzled over the conundrum of his companion. Fair Juno was not that young, nor yet that old. Mid-twenties was his experienced guess. What did not seem right was the absence of a ring on her left hand. She was undeniably beautiful, attractive in a wholly sensual way, and the sort of lady who was invited to Chatham House. The possibility that she was a lady of a different hue occurred only to be dismissed. Fair Juno was well-bred enough to recognise his potential and be flustered by it—hardly the hallmark of a barque of frailty. All in all, fair Juno was an enigma.
‘And now,’ he said, bringing their companionable silence to an end, ‘we should put our minds to deciding how best to return you to your home.’ He glanced at the fair face beside him. ‘Say the word, and I’ll drive you to your door.’ Entirely unintentionally, his voice had dropped several tones. Which, he thought, catching Juno’s wide-eyed look, merely indicated how much she affected him.
‘I don’t really think that would be altogether wise,’ Helen returned, suppressing her scandalous inclinations. He was teasing her, she was sure.
‘Perhaps not. I had hoped London starchiness had abated somewhat, but clearly the passing of the years has yet to turn that particular stone to dust.’ Martin smiled down into her large eyes, infusing his expression with as much innocence as he was capable. ‘How, then?’
Helen narrowed her eyes and stared hard at him. ‘I had expected, my lord, that one of your reputation would have no difficulty in overcoming such a minor obstacle. If you put your mind to it, I’m sure you’ll think of something.’
It was a decidedly impertinent speech and provoked a decidedly audacious reply. The gleam in the grey eyes gave her warning.
‘I’m afraid, my dear, that if you consult my reputation more closely you’ll realise I’ve never been one for placating the proprieties.’
Realising her tactical error, Helen retreated to innocence. How silly to try to deflate a rake with outrageousness. ‘Don’t you really know? I confess, I’d thought you would.’
For an instant, the grey eyes held hers, suspicion in their depths. Then their quality subtly altered. She was conscious of a stilling of time, of her surroundings dimming into blankness. His grey eyes, and him, filled her senses. Then his lips twisted in a gently mocking smile and he looked away.
‘As you say, fair Juno, my experience is extensive.’ Martin slanted another glance her way, and saw a slight frown pucker her brow. ‘I suspect it might be best if we try for one of the minor inns, just before Hounslow. I’ll hire a chaise and escort for you there.’ When the frown did not immediately lift, he smiled. ‘You may give the coachman instructions once you reach the outskirts of London.’
‘Yes,’ said Helen, struggling to preserve her calm in the face of the discovery that grey eyes of his particular shade seemed to possess a strange power over her. For a moment, she had been mesmerised, deprived of all will, totally at his mercy. And it had felt quite delicious. ‘I suppose that will do.’
Her tone of reluctant acceptance brought a smirk to Martin’s lips, quickly suppressed. What a very responsive yet oddly innocent goddess she was. His interest in her, already marked, was growing by the minute. Just as well that they
